She squared her shoulders. It was time to stop feeling guilty for the crimes of others. She would defend herself, and she would drag the truth out into the daylight. She started walking around again, pacing and thinking, scrutinizing everyone she passed. Are you a part of this? Are you? After some minutes she noticed a man, apparently immersed in the Idaho Statesman, standing by the Departures sign, and wondered how long he had been there.
Think, she told herself. She had asked Nick to look into a single, specific aspect of the Forbes story: was there any evidence to link Forbess former employers, the CIA, with his death? She hadnt considered that a life-threatening question to ask, not when Nick had won himself a shelf-full of trophies investigating CIA conduct in the war on terror. He had exposed the Agencys working methods and he had lived both to tell the tale and to drink his prize money.
Yet this latest investigation was clearly different. Whatever he had found had struck a CIA nerve that was too raw to be tolerated. CIA agents had been caught bundling men convicted of no crime into chartered aircraft and sending them to faraway corners of the globe where they could be tortured with impunity and yet worldwide exposure of that truth had not driven the Agency to take Nick du Cainess life. Someone, somewhere, clearly regarded a revelation of CIA involvement in the murder of Vic Forbes as more serious and more damaging even than the rendition story and were ready to prevent it by killing again.
Shortly after four thirty in the morning, she felt the vibration of a text arriving on her BlackBerry. It was from her sister:
Call me urgently. Something strange is happening. Liz.
She was half-way through dialling the Dublin number when another message arrived, this time from Sanchez.
The police want to see you. Now. Take the next plane to New York.
56
New York, JFK Airport, Monday March 27, 14.41
They met her off the plane, a detective in plain clothes with two uniformed officers hanging close by. They led her away from the other passengers, towards what they called an interview suite, in fact a blank room containing a desk and three chairs.
The detective introduced himself as Charles Bridge. In his early forties, African-American and unsmiling, he got straight to business.
Want to thank you for coming to New York right away. We appreciate that.
Maggie nodded, her heart throbbing. What was this about?
The detective glanced at a piece of paper. It took us a while to get hold of you, you know.
Yes? Maggie said, reluctant to offer anything more.
Still examining the piece of paper, he said, Yep. A long time. Tried your cell, that just rang out. No response on email. Seemed like youd just disappeared.
My phone was stolen. Along with my wallet and computer. In Washington State.
That right? Bridge looked at the paper again then back up at Maggie. Do you know why we wanted to see you, Miss Costello?
I know that my friend Nick du Caines is dead.
Thats right. Why else? If you had to guess.
Maggie thought of the drink shed had with him last Thursday. If she mentioned it, she would have to say what they discussed. Im not sure.
Because, Miss Costello, the last call Mr du Caines made was to you. To your number.
To me?
Thats right. To your home number.
When?
His phone says he placed the call at three minutes past eleven last night. Your answering machine confirms that. And, based on what the neighbours have told us, about the noises coming from Mr du Cainess apartment, we think thats the time of death.
Did you just say my answering machine confirms that? How do you know that?
Weve got the machine, Miss Costello.
Youve what? How?
We tried to contact you by all available means, calling your home number, your cellphone. We contacted your employer- he glanced back down at his sheet of paper, -excuse me, your former employers at the White House, and they had no idea how to reach you. We had no choice but to obtain a warrant and make an entry into your apartment and impound the machine.
You broke into my apartment?
Our colleagues in Washington made an entry on our behalf, yes.
Jesus Christ! Maggies mind was racing as she thought of what was there, what might have been seen. Had she left anything out that might point to the Forbes business? And did you find anything, on my machine, I mean?
Well come to that, Miss Costello. Right now, Im just puzzled why a man who is being beaten and strangled, who would have known he was at the end of his life, would call your number in his death throes. Weve heard the message. He doesnt even try to speak to you. Why would anyone do that?
What are you suggesting, Detective?
Im not suggesting anything. Im just wondering. I mean, he didnt dial your cellphone, did he?
I told you, my cellphone was stolen. That number didnt work any more.
But he calls your home number. Almost like that was the only way he could lead us to you.
Lead you to me? I dont understand.
Nothing to understand right now, Miss Costello.
I dont like your tone, Detective. Maggie could feel her face growing flushed. I dont like what youre insinuating. Nick du Caines was a very dear friend of mine. And I was on the other side of the country when he died. Ive just flown in from bloody Idaho.
You need to keep calm, Miss Costello. Im not insinuating anything. Im just asking some questions.
I want to hear this message.
Well, Im not sure-
Its my property. It was on my machine, he left it for me.
This is evidence in the case now, Miss Costello, I cant-
That answering machine is my legal property. And right now I am a witness, no more. If you want to arrest me, go ahead. Until you do, I have the right to hear whats on that tape.
The detective pulled out his phone and retreated to the corner of the room to make a call. He was talking in a low voice, apparently to a superior. He returned to his chair looking glum. Apparently, the advice is that we should play the message to you. See if you can shed any light on it.
He produced a laptop computer, pressed a few keys and then clicked on an audio file. From the machines small speakers, Maggie now heard a beep, followed by a distant sound of objects clattering off a desk.
Then she heard Nick, bellowing in pain. He must have been winded by an almighty punch: Ennnnn!
It was terrible to listen to, the horror of it real and direct. Even distorted by transmission to her answering machine and from there to the audio file, she could hear the fleshy thud of blows to Nicks body followed by exhalations of pain:
Ayyy!
To think she had brought this on him. It was as if she were there, watching as Nick gasped and kicked out, the breath of life squeezed out of him.
It lasted another full, murderous minute, until an electronic voice announced: You have ten more seconds to complete your message. There was a last gasp from Nick Phwaw! and finally it was over.
Maggies head was dipped low as she stared at the floor. The detective spoke again.
Its harrowing to hear. I know that. But why would he do it? Like I said before, he doesnt do anything except leave a recording of his own death. Theres no message to you.
A small spark suddenly broke through Maggies grief. Can you play it again, please?
Why?
Im not sure. Just play it again.
Did you hear something?
Maybe.
Reluctantly, he clicked on the file a second time, watching Maggie closely throughout as she listened. Ninety seconds later, he raised his eyebrows. So?
Im sorry, Detective. I was wrong. She had to look away from him as she lied, repeating what she had heard in her mind, just to be sure.
Any idea why he would call you at such a time?
Look, Mr Bridge. This is awkward. I had a drink with Nick last Thursday. He was an old friend but he always wanted it to be something more. He said some things to me last week. She looked up briefly at the detective, so that their eyes met. Romantic things. I wonder if Nick was just trying to say goodbye.
The detective held her gaze and Maggie willed herself to meet it without flinching or flushing. Then, apparently satisfied, he nodded to the uniformed men that the interview was over, packed his computer away and showed Maggie to the door after he had taken her new cellphone number. Well be in touch again if we need any more from you, Miss Costello.
Released back onto the airport concourse, Maggie tried to walk away as nonchalantly as possible, in case the cops were watching her. She forced herself to be patient, to take the elevator to another floor before whipping out her computer and acting on the information Nick du Caines had passed to her as his last, dying act.
Released back onto the airport concourse, Maggie tried to walk away as nonchalantly as possible, in case the cops were watching her. She forced herself to be patient, to take the elevator to another floor before whipping out her computer and acting on the information Nick du Caines had passed to her as his last, dying act.
57
New York, Monday March 27, 15.35
She said the sequence over to herself once more, repeating it as she had heard it. There was no doubting it. It was NICK4.
Sitting at the gate for a flight to Albuquerque, she checked again that neither Detective Bridge nor any of his men nor anyone else for that matter were around. No one that she could see. She would stay here, surrounded by people. It was broad daylight; there were crowds. Surely that would make her safe.
She had been recalling the lecture her sister had given her about storing documents online, rather than on disks or memory sticks that could get lost down the back of the sofa or soaked in coffee. And then she had remembered how even Nick du Caines, in his little masterclass on journalism, had confessed that he had screwed up so often, he now wrote everything online, storing it up there in the ether.
She played back in her head the sounds she had heard, forcing away the vile images they conjured, as her friend was horribly murdered. Concentrate, Maggie, she told herself fiercely. You have to do this for Nick: he died trying to make contact with you. Be strong and bloody well think it through. There was a message within that message: of that she was now sure. At first she had thought they were no more than desperate howls of pain. But Bridge had been right. There was a reason why Nick, while fighting for his life, had fumbled for his phone and dialled her number. He had to be communicating something. And when Bridge had played the recording for the second time, she had heard it. Each apparent sound of pain Nick had made had been different to the one before. That cry Ennnn! was not just an expression of terrible agony, of a man winded by a punch, though it might well be that as well. It was also the letter N. Ayyy was awful to hear but translated into the letter I. On it had gone until that final desperate noise Phwaw: clearly the number four. She marvelled at the strength and ingenuity of such a feat and, not for the first time that day, felt glad to have known Nick du Caines.